Jacinth sighed.

'It seems a good while since we heard from Lady Myrtle,' she said. 'I hope she's not ill. I did think she would have _tried_ to get us there for Christmas.'

'I don't think she can be ill,' said Mrs Mildmay, 'for your aunt would have known it. She goes to see Lady Myrtle regularly. I shall be hearing from Alison in a day or two, however.'

'Ja.s.sie,' said Frances, a moment or two later, when their mother had left the room, 'I wish you wouldn't look so melancholy. Just think what a lot of nice things have come to us, as well as the sad ones. Just fancy how we should have been ready to jump out of our skins for joy if we had known, when we left Stannesley, how soon papa and mamma would be at home with us.'

'I know,' said Jacinth. 'I do try to think of all that. But I do so dislike this gloomy place, Francie, and I think papa looks so f.a.gged, and we have scarcely any friends we care for; the people are all so stupid, and so'----

'So what?'

'So rich,' said Jacinth, rather at a loss apparently what crime to lay at the doors of the good folk of the manufacturing town who had incurred her displeasure.

Frances laughed.

'That's not a sin,' she said. 'Lady Myrtle's rich, and so in a way, I suppose, is Uncle Marmy.'

'I mean they seem to think of it so. Once or twice, when I've paid calls with mamma, they were so fussy and show-off. You know how I mean,' said Jacinth.

'Well, there are plenty of poor too, if that would make you like Barmettle any better. Amy Piers says there are some dreadfully poor, and she says that even the ones who get very big wages don't save at all, and then if there comes a bad time--a bad time for trade, when some of the people have to be turned off: it does come like that now and then, she says, though I don't understand why--they are really starving.'

'They should be taught to save, then,' said Jacinth. 'Why don't the Piers teach them? If I were the vicar, I'd preach sermons about it. If people are so silly, they must expect to suffer for it.'

'But think of the poor little children!' said Frances, whose sympathy was readier than her sister's. 'It isn't _their_ fault, and they suffer the most. Amy says it's a good deal owing to the people spending so much on beer and brandy and horrid tipsifying things. I'm sure the Piers do all they possibly can, and you know how papa says that, even with all the strict rules in the army, it's awfully difficult to keep the men sober. If I were the Queen, Ja.s.s, I'd make a law against having so many public-houses; I would indeed.'

'The Queen can't make laws all by herself like that, Frances. You don't understand. If the people were taught how horrid it is to get drunk, they'd leave off wanting to buy too much beer and things like that, and then the public-houses would have to give up because they wouldn't have customers enough. That's the best way.'

'Well, I think it should be done both ways,' said Frances. 'If there weren't so many public-houses, there wouldn't be so much temptation;'

and the little reformer nodded her head sagely.

Just then Mrs Mildmay re-entered the room.

'Ja.s.sie dear,' she said, 'it's Sat.u.r.day morning. You have no lessons, and though it's so rainy I know you're not afraid of the weather.

Frances has a cold, so she mustn't come out. Will you wrap yourself up well, and come a little way with me to help me to carry some things to Mrs Wake? She has gone to stay with her mother, you know, for a little change, but they are very poor people, and I must help them as much as I can.'

Jacinth sprang to her feet eagerly.

'Oh yes, mamma,' she exclaimed, 'I should like very much to come. I'll be ready directly. I'll put on a thick jacket and my waterproof cape over that.'

And in a few minutes the mother and daughter were making their way, each laden with some parcels as well as the unavoidable umbrella, along the muddy pavement in the direction of a poorer part of the town. Mrs Wake was the wife of one of Colonel Mildmay's soldier servants; she happened to belong to a Barmettle family, which was just now very fortunate for her, as she had had a most serious illness in the barracks, and had lately been moved for greater quiet to her own old home.

'Francie and I were just talking about the poor people here,' said Jacinth. 'Amy Piers tells her about them. I shall be very glad to see one of the homes they live in.'

'It will be rather a good specimen, though they are very poor people,'

said Mrs Mildmay; 'for they are thrifty and most respectable. But for many years the father has not been able to earn full wages, as he was crippled by an accident. Indeed, but for the kindness of the head of the factory where he worked, he would have been turned off altogether on a very small pension. It was true kindness to let him stay on to do what work he could, for it kept up his spirits.'

'The master must be a good man,' said Jacinth.

'I believe he is--one of the best in Barmettle,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'But here we are, Ja.s.sie,' and as she spoke she turned down a small pa.s.sage, not wide enough to be called by a more important name, leading out of the already poor and narrow street they were in, and knocked at a door a few steps on.

It was quickly opened. A rather gaunt and careworn, but clean and honest-looking, elderly woman stood before them. Her eyes were red with crying, but she welcomed Mrs Mildmay very civilly, though with a sort of reserve of manner which struck Jacinth as very different from the extremely hearty, though respectful, deference with which, as her grandmother's messenger, she used to be received by their own villagers at Stannesley.

'You'll be come to ask for my daughter,' said the woman. She had been a domestic servant, and had but little north-country accent. 'You're welcome, I'm sure, and she'll take it kindly. Take a seat,' and she led them into the little kitchen, tidy and clean, though enc.u.mbered with some pieces of treasured furniture decidedly too big for it. 'Yes, she's fairly--th' doctor's main content.'

'Oh,' said Mrs Mildmay, 'I am glad to hear it. I was afraid when I saw you'----But she stopped suddenly, for before she could say more the old woman had sunk into a chair, and, flinging her ap.r.o.n over her head, was giving way to bitter weeping. Jacinth felt both distressed and alarmed.

Like her mother she had noticed the signs of tears on Mrs Burton's face.

'I am so sorry,' said Mrs Mildmay, getting up as she said the words, and standing beside the woman, she gently laid her hand on her arm. 'Is it some new trouble--your husband?'

'Nay, nay,' sobbed the poor thing. 'Burton is finely--for him, that's to say. But have ye not heard th' ill news?' and she raised her head in surprise. 'Th' measter,' and as she grew absorbed in what she had to tell, she fell back into the kind of talk she had accustomed herself to discard when with 'gentry.' 'He's gone!' and her sobs broke out again.

'What! good Mr Fairfield,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'No, I had not heard it.

What a loss he will be! Was it very sudden?'

And Jacinth standing by, listened eagerly to all Mrs Burton told.

He had been struck by paralysis--the kind friend of so many years--only two days before, and had never rallied. And the grief was widespread and deep. It would throw many into sorrow and anxiety too, the old woman said; for though he left two sons to succeed him, it remained to be seen if they would follow in his footsteps.

'They will be very rich; they may not care to carry on the business, of course,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'No doubt Mr Fairfield has left a large fortune.'

But Mrs Burton shook her head. It was far from the case. The business was doing well, as it deserved to do, but beyond its good prospects he left but little. And then she went on to explain why it was so; thus entering into the circ.u.mstances which had so specially endeared the dead man to his workpeople. A good many years ago, she related, when Mr Fairfield had first inherited the 'works,' a terrible accident had occurred, in which, with several others, Burton had suffered. The accident, though in those days such inquiries were less searching, had revealed a certain danger in a part of the machinery recently introduced at great expense, as a wonderful improvement. The danger was remote; it was perfectly possible no damage might ever again occur from the same cause; no pressure of any kind was put upon the master, no suggestion even, of change; his own workpeople would not have blamed him had he 'let things be.' But such was not Mr Fairfield's way of viewing a master's responsibilities. He had almost all the machinery changed, for the one alteration he deemed absolutely necessary involved others. And the outlay had been something immense, especially as a run of bad years had followed it. And even when times improved again, and he began to feel his head above water, he never himself benefited by the profits as most would have done.

''Twas always summat for his people, as he called 'em, bless him.

Reading-rooms, or clubs, or schools. Year in, year out, 'twas his first thought and his last. What else was he there for? he'd say, mony's the time. Ah, well; he's gone where _his_ Master'll have good thought for _him_,' the old woman added quaintly, 'the master he served so faithful.

For ye see, ma'am,' she went on, forgetting for the moment her grief in her earnestness, 'I take it as it's this way. There's honesty to G.o.d as well as honesty to men. None would 'a blamed Measter Fairfield if he'd let things be; no man could 'a done so. But he looked higher nor the judging o' men.'

'Yes, truly,' Mrs Mildmay heartily agreed, 'that was the secret, Mrs Burton.'

'But, oh dear, dear;' cried the poor woman, relapsing again into the tears which did her credit, 'it's mony a sore heart he'll leave behind him.'

'Mamma,' said Jacinth softly and half timidly, when a quarter of an hour or so later they were wending their way home relieved of their packages, through the muddy streets--'mamma, do you know that what she said--old Mrs Burton, I mean--about the two kinds of honesty has helped to--to make me understand better than I did before what papa felt, and you too, of course, about--about Lady Myrtle and the Harpers, you know.'

Mrs Mildmay, in spite of the rain and her umbrella, managed to give Jacinth's arm a little loving squeeze.

'I am so glad, so very glad, dear,' she said.

'Mamma,' said Jacinth, again, after a little silence, in a more a.s.sured voice this time, 'if papa had been in Mr Fairfield's place, he would have done just like him, wouldn't he?'

'I am quite sure he would,' agreed her mother.

And notwithstanding the cold and the rain and the grimness of everything, I think Jacinth felt happier that day than since they had come to Barmettle.

A day or two later another little event helped to confirm Jacinth's better and truer views of her great disappointment. This was the arrival of a letter for Frances, forwarded from Thetford by their Aunt Alison.

'A letter for me!' exclaimed the little girl, when at the breakfast-table her mother handed it to her. 'Whom can it be from? I hardly ever get any letters.' But as her eye fell on the address her face flushed and brightened.

'Oh, I do believe,' she said, 'I do believe it's from Bessie--Bessie Harper. And of course she'd have to send it to Aunt Alison's; she doesn't know we've left Thetford.'